The Copperhead

by Harold Frederic

  CHAPTER XII

  THE UNWELCOME GUEST

  Abner and Esther stood for a bewildered minute, staring at the roughunpainted boards through which this astonishing inquiry had come. Iscrambled to my feet and kicked aside the tick and blankets. Whateverelse happened, it did not seem likely that there was any more sleepingto be done. Then the farmer strode forward and dragged one of the doorsback on its squeaking rollers. Some snow fell in upon his boots fromthe ridge that had formed against it over night. Save for a vaguelyfaint snow-light in the air, it was still dark.

  "Yes, she's here," said Abner, with his hand on the open door.

  "Then I'd like to know--" the invisible Jee began excitedly shoutingfrom without.

  "Sh-h! You'll wake everybody up!" the farmer interposed. "Come inside,so that I can shut the door."

  "Never under your roof!" came back the shrill hostile voice. "I swore Inever would, and I won't!"

  "You'd have to take a crowbar to get under my roof," returned Abner,grimly conscious of a certain humor in the thought. "What's left of itis layin' over yonder in what used to be the cellar. So you needn'tstand on ceremony on _that_ account. I ain't got no house now, so'tyour oath ain't bindin'. Besides, the Bible says, 'Swear not at all!'"

  A momentary silence ensued; then Abner rattled the door on its wheels."Well, what are you goin' to do?" he asked, impatiently. "I can't keepthis door open all night, freezin' everybody to death. If you won'tcome in, you'll have to stay out!" and again there was an ominouscreaking of the rollers.

  "I want my da'ater!" insisted Jehoiada, vehemently. "I stan' on afather's rights."

  "A father ain't got no more right to make a fool of himself thananybody else," replied Abner, gravely. "What kind of a time o' nightis this, with the snow knee-deep, for a girl to be out o' doors? She'sall right here, with my women-folks, an' I'll bring her down with thecutter in the mornin'--that is, if she wants to come. An' now, once forall, will you step inside or not?"

  Esther had taken up the lantern and advanced with it now to theopen door. "Come in, father," she said, in tones which seemed to beauthoritative. "They've been very kind to me. Come in!"

  Then, to my surprise, the lean and scrawny figure of the cooper emergedfrom the darkness, and stepping high over the snow, entered the barn,Abner sending the door to behind him with a mighty sweep of the arm.

  Old Hagadorn came in grumbling under his breath, and stamping the snowfrom his feet with sullen kicks. He bore a sledge-stake in one of hismittened hands. A worsted comforter was wrapped around his neck andears and partially over his conical-peaked cap. He rubbed his long thinnose against his mitten and blinked sulkily at the lantern and the girlwho held it.

  "So here you be!" he said at last, in vexed tones. "An' me traipsin'around in the snow the best part of the night lookin' for you!"

  "See here, father," said Esther, speaking in a measured, deliberateway, "we won't talk about that at all. If a thousand times worsethings had happened to both of us than have, it still wouldn't be worthmentioning compared with what has befallen these good people here.They've been attacked by a mob of rowdies and loafers, and had theirhouse and home burned down over their heads and been driven to takerefuge here in this barn of a winter's night. They've shared theirshelter with me and been kindness itself, and now that you're here, ifyou can't think of anything pleasant to say to them, if I were you I'dsay nothing at all."

  This was plain talk, but it seemed to produce a satisfactory effectupon Jehoiada. He unwound his comforter enough to liberate hisstraggling sandy beard and took off his mittens. After a moment ortwo he seated himself in the chair, with a murmured "I'm jest abouttuckered out," in apology for the action. He did, in truth, present awoeful picture of fatigue and physical feebleness, now that we saw himin repose. The bones seemed ready to start through the parchment-likeskin on his gaunt cheeks, and his eyes glowed with an unhealthy fire,as he sat, breathing hard and staring at the jumbled heaps of furnitureon the floor.

  Esther had put the lantern again on the box and drawn forward achair for Abner, but the farmer declined it with a wave of the handand continued to stand in the background, looking his ancient enemyover from head to foot with a meditative gaze. Jehoiada grew visiblynervous under this inspection; he fidgeted on his chair and then fellto coughing--a dry, rasping cough which had an evil sound, and which heseemed to make the worse by fumbling aimlessly at the button that heldthe overcoat collar round his throat.

  At last Abner walked slowly over to the shadowed masses of piled-uphousehold things and lifted out one of the drawers that had been takenfrom the framework of the bureau and brought over with their contents.Apparently it was not the right one, for he dragged aside a good manyobjects to get at another, and rummaged about in this for severalminutes. Then he came out again into the small segment of the lantern'sradiance with a pair of long thick woolen stockings of his own in hishand.

  "You better pull off them wet boots an' draw these on," he said,addressing Hagadorn, but looking fixedly just over his head. "It won'tdo that cough o' yours no good, settin' around with wet feet."

  The cooper looked in a puzzled way at the huge butternut-yarn stockingsheld out under his nose, but he seemed too much taken aback to speak orto offer to touch them.

  "Yes, father!" said Esther, with quite an air of command. "You knowwhat that cough means," and straightway Hagadorn lifted one of his feetto his knee and started tugging at the boot-heel in a desultory way. Hedesisted after a few half-hearted attempts, and began coughing again,this time more distressingly than ever.

  His daughter sprang forward to help him, but Abner pushed her aside,put the stockings under his arm, and himself undertook the job. He didnot bend his back overmuch, but hoisted Jee's foot well in the air andpulled.

  "Brace your foot agi'n mine an' hold on to the chair!" he ordered,sharply, for the first effect of his herculean pull had been to nearlydrag the cooper to the floor. He went at it more gently now, easingthe soaked leather up and down over the instep until the boots wereoff. He looked furtively at the bottoms of these before he tossed themaside, noting, no doubt, as I did, how old and broken and run down atthe heel they were. Jee himself peeled off the drenched stockings, andthey too were flimsy old things, darned and mended almost out of theiroriginal color.

  These facts served only to deepen my existing low opinion of Hagadorn,but they appeared to affect Abner Beech differently. He stood by andwatched the cooper dry his feet and then draw on the warm dry hose overhis shrunken shanks, with almost a friendly interest. Then he shovedalong one of the blankets across the floor to Hagadorn's chair that hemight wrap his feet in it.

  "That's it," he said, approvingly. "They ain't no means o' building afire here right now, but as luck would have it we'd jest set up an oldkitchen stove in the little cow-barn to warm up gruel for the ca'aveswith, an' the first thing we'll do'll be to rig it up in here to cookbreakfast by, an' then we'll dry them boots o' yourn in no time. You goan' pour some oats into 'em now," Abner added, turning to me. "And youmight as well call Hurley. We've got considerable to do, an' daylight'sbreakin'."

  The Irishman lay on his back where I had left him, still snoringtempestuously. As a rule he was a light sleeper, but this time I hadto shake him again and again before he understood that it was morning.I opened the side-door, and sure enough, the day had begun. The cloudshad cleared away. The sky was still ashen gray overhead, but the lightfrom the horizon, added to the whiteness of the unaccustomed snow,rendered it quite easy to see one's way about inside. I went to theoat-bin.

  Hurley, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, regarded me and my task withcuriosity. "An' is it a stovepipe for a measure ye have?" he asked.

  "No; it's one of Jee Hagadorn's boots," I replied. "I'm filling 'emso't they'll swell when they're dry in'."

  He slid down off the hay as if someone had pushed him. "What's that yesay? Haggydorn? _Ould_ Haggydorn?" he demanded.

  I nodded assent. "Yes, he's inside with Abner," I explained. "An'he's got on Abne
r's stockin's, an' it looks like he's goin' to stay tobreakfast."

  Hurley opened his mouth in sheer surprise and gazed at me with hangingjaw and round eyes.

  "'Tis the fever that's on ye," he said, at last. "Ye're wandherin' inyer mind!"

  "You just go in and see for yourself," I replied, and Hurley promptlytook me at my word.

  He came back presently, turning the corner of the stanchions in adepressed and rambling way, quite at variance with his accustomedswinging gait. He hung his head, too, and shook it over and over againperplexedly.

  "Abner 'n' me'll be bringin' in the stove," he said. "'Tis not fit foryou to go out wid that sickness on ye."

  "Well, anyway," I retorted, "you see I wasn't wanderin' much in mymind."

  Hurley shook his head again. "Well, then," he began, lapsing intodeep brogue and speaking rapidly, "I've meself seen the woman wid thehead of a horse on her in the lake forninst the Three Castles, an'me sister's first man, sure he broke down the ditch round-about theDanes' fort on Dunkelly, an' a foine grand young man, small for hisstrength an' wid a red cap on his head, flew out an' wint up in thesky, an' whin he related it up comes Father Forrest to him in thepotaties, an' says he, 'I do be suprised wid you, O'Driscoll, for tobe relatin' such loies.' 'I'll take me Bible oat' on 'em!' says he.''Tis your imagination!' says the priest. 'No imagination at all!'says O'Driscoll; 'sure, I saw it wid dese two eyes, as plain as I'mlookin' at your riverence, an' a far grander sight it was too!' An' meown mother, faith, manny's the toime I've seen her makin' up dhropsfor the yellow sicknest wid woodlice, an' sayin' Hail Marys over 'em,an' thim same 'ud cure annything from sore teeth to a wooden leg formoiles round. But, saints help me! I never seen the loikes o' _this_!Haggydorn is it? _Ould_ Haggydorn! _Huh!_"

  Then the Irishman, still with a dejected air, started off across theyard through the snow to the cow-barns, mumbling to himself as he went.

  I had heard Abner's heavy tread coming along the stanchions toward me,but now all at once it stopped. The farmer's wife had followed himinto the passage, and he had halted to speak with her.

  "They ain't no two ways about it, mother," he expostulated. "We jestgot to put the best face on it we kin, an' act civil, an' pass the timeo' day as if nothing'd ever happened atween us. He'll be goin' thefirst thing after breakfast."

  "Oh! I ain't agoin' to sass him, or say anything uncivil," M'rye brokein, reassuringly. "What I mean is, I dont want to come into the for'ardend of the barn at all. They ain't no need of it. I kin cook thebreakfast in back, and Janey kin fetch it for'ard for yeh, an' nobodyneed say anythin', or be any the wiser."

  "Yes, I know," argued Abner, "but there's the looks o' the thing, _I_say, if you're goin' to do a thing, why, do it right up to the handle,or else don't do it at all. An' then there's the girl to consider, and_her_ feelin's."

  "Dunno't her feelin's are such a pesky sight more importance than otherfolkses," remarked M'rye, callously.

  This unaccustomed recalcitrancy seemed to take Abner aback. He moveda few steps forward, so that he became visible from where I stood,then halted again and turned, his shoulders rounded, his hands claspedbehind his back. I could see him regarding M'rye from under his broadhat-brim with a gaze at once dubious and severe.

  "I ain't much in the habit o' hearin' you talk this way to me, mother,"he said at last, with grave depth of tones and significant deliberation.

  "Well, I can't help it, Abner!" rejoined M'rye, bursting forth invehement utterance, all the more excited from the necessity she feltof keeping it out of hearing of the unwelcome guest. "I don't want todo anything to aggravate you, or go contrary to your notions, but witheven the willin'est pack-horse there is such a thing as pilin' it ontoo thick. I can stan' bein' burnt out o' house 'n' home, an' seein'pretty nigh every rag an' stick I had in the world go kitin' up thechimney, an' campin' out here in a barn--My Glory, yes!--an' as muchmore on top o' that, but, I tell you flat-footed, I can't stomach JeeHagadorn, an' I _won't_!"

  Abner continued to contemplate the revolted M'rye with displeasedamazement written all over his face. Once or twice I thought he wasgoing to speak, but nothing came of it. He only looked and looked, asif he had the greatest difficulty in crediting what he saw.

  Finally, with a deep-chested sigh, he turned again. "I s'pose this isstill more or less of a free country," he said. "If you're sot on it, Ican't hender you," and he began walking once more toward me.

  M'rye followed him out and put a hand on his arm. "Don't go off likethat, Abner!" she adjured him. "You _know_ there ain't nothin' in thiswhole wide world I wouldn't do to please you--if I _could_! But thisthing jest goes ag'in' my grain. It's the way folks are made. It's yournater to be forgivin' an' do good to them that despitefully use you."

  "No, it ain't!" declared Abner, vigorously. "No, sirree! 'Hold fast' ismy nater. I stan' out ag'in' my enemies till the last cow comes home.But when they come wadin' in through the snow, with their feet soppin'wet, an' coughin' fit to turn themselves inside out, an' their daughteris there, an' you've sort o' made it up with her, an' we're all campin'out in a barn, don't you see--"

  "No, I can't see it," replied M'rye, regretful but firm. "They alwayssaid we Ramswells had Injun blood in us somewhere. An' when I get anInjun streak on me, right down in the marrow o' my bones, why, youmusn't blame me--or feel hard if--if I--"

  "No-o," said Abner, with reluctant conviction, "I s'pose not. I daresay you're actin' accordin' to your lights. An' besides, he'll be goin'the first thing after breakfast."

  "An' you ain't mad, Abner?" pleaded M'rye, almost tremulously, as iffrightened at the dimensions of the victory she had won.

  "Why, bless your heart, no," answered the farmer, with a glaringsimulation of easy-mindedness. "No--that's all right, mother!"

  Then with long heavy-footed strides the farmer marched past me and outinto the cow-yard.